Pull Up Your Saggy Baggy Pants

Fashion trends seem to come and go.  Jelly shoes, Crocs, coulottes, maxi dresses, mini dresses, micro miniskirts, acid wash jeans...  I could go on, and often do.  In today, out tomorrow.  Some trends are gone so long that they come back into style, like all the sudden interest in the Mad Men era.  I don't really mind fashion trends.  They are often weird and arbitrary, but they make life entertaining, to say the least. While I don't necessarily partake of these trends(me in a micro mini? HAHA!), I don't mind that others do.

But whoever decided that wearing pants slung so low on the hips that we can all see that you're wearing underpants?  Needs to be smacked repeatedly upside the head with stinky socks.  I can't drive down the street or walk in the mall without passing some boy/man with his pants at his thighs, practically mooning me.

Droopy drawers were a thing back in the day when infants wore cloth diapers.  Everyone from that era has at least one picture of themselves standing with a diaper drooping about chubby knees.  That is what sll these saggy pants remind me of: droopy, stinky diapers that need changing. What was cute when you were a year old, however, looks ridiculous at fourteen. It looks ridiculous at twenty, too. And also forty.  Let's just say that it looks ridiculous at any age over two.

Nobody wants to see your underpants, fellas.  If we did, everyone would wear their underpants on the outside of their outfits, and they wouldn't be such a big deal.  It is called underwear for a reason, people! It is not supposed to be worn on the outside.  People aren't supposed to see your Green Lantern Underoos unless you've been in an accident and can't help it.  Underwear is supposed to be something that only those people closest to you get to see. 

I know that kids have to be cool, and in order to be cool they have to follow the fickle dictates of their fellow teens. There has to be another way. I know teens wear things just to annoy adults; surely there is some other piece of clothing on which to bestow this honor. I know young men have to prove themselves; find another way.  I've been waiting for this particularly heinous one to over.  Yet saggy baggy pants are still here! Arrgh! Go away already! 



3.) Talk about a trend you don’t care for.

Six Things That I Never Learned In School

 5.) 6 things you never learned in school.

I learned an awful lot in school. Really, I did.  I paid attention in class, raised my hand often, and almost always did my homework.  Even though we moved every two or three years, I was a good student, and none of my teachers ever had cause to complain about me.

Well, except for that one time in eighth grade with the substitute science teacher. That was pretty darn awful, and I am sure that poor woman is still in therapy over it. But it wasn't just me, I had help coming up with those particular shenanigans.  Now that the statute of limitations on being a horrible teenager has passed, I would be happy to name names.

As much as I learned in school, there were several areas where my education failed me.  I never, ever got Geometry or Trigonometry, and Physics was a bit of a reality check.  But for every sonnet I was able to recite, for all of the Civil War battles I was able to recall, there were some skills that my teachers neglected.  From the vantage point of hindsight, I can look back and pinpoint where the public education system done me wrong. 

How to Cook.   After one or two extremely messy fiascos, my mother banned me from her normally immaculate kitchen. I felt that I had been incorrectly tagged as a non-cooker, so I signed up for home economics in ninth grade.  In my mother's day, home economics was a class that taught cooking and sewing and all those nifty things that women needed to know in order to keep a house in good working order.  Good information that could be used to create a happy home.  In my time, home economics was a semester of cooking.  Also, everything was done in groups.  My group was not happy with me after I mistook some overly yellow butter for cheese.  They wanted to kick me out of the group, but I argued against my ouster, since failing home economics would have been the death of my mother.   After several rounds of intense negotiations and the presence of Henry Kissinger, the rest of my group did all the cooking, and I got to write the paper about the whole episode.  We all got an A.  Even Henry. 

How to balance a checkbook.  One moment I was a former college student, taking my diploma and starting a new job.  Then I discovered that my checking account was all wonky, at least according to the bank.  I was bouncing checks, the bank told me.  Stop it now, they said.  I was agreeable to their suggestion--there are pretty hefty penalties for rubber checks.  But I discovered that I had absolutely no clue how to balance my checkbooks, so that I would know exactly how much money was available.  My mother's idea of teaching was to tell me how to do it once, get mad when I immediately understand, and then just do it all for me.  Finally, one of my friends, who was an honest-to-gosh math teacher, sat down for two whole hours and showed me how to balance everything out.  Then she came back over the following month to show me again.  The third time was the charm.

How to jump start a car/change a tire.  I tried to learn these things in school.  I really did.  I wanted to sign up for auto mechanics for this very reason, and I told the high school counselor that very thing.  She informed me that auto mechanics were only for kids who were not going to college and needed a trade so they could get a job.  She suggested that I take journalism instead.  I grumbled, but my acquiescence to her request came back to haunt me on several occasions.  The very first time I needed to jump start my car, I nearly hurt someone by putting the red squeezy-thing on the wrong point.  My friend Cathy's father woke us up one Saturday morning to change the flat tire on a pickup.  He showed us the steps, and we learned that girls have absolutely NO arm strength to turn those stupid lugnuts.  Plus, once we put the spare on and let down the jack, we realized that the spare tire was flat as well. 

How to sew.  Ever had to hem up a pair of pants?  Patch a hole in a shirt?  Don't ask me.  My mother tried to teach me how to sew, until I broke three of her sewing machine needles in a week.  I thought that perhaps taking home economics would remedy my lack of skill with a needle, but that didn't work out(see above).  I was finally able to figure out how to sew on a button, but that is about it. Now, not knowing how to sew has certainly not caused me untold misery in my life.  Except when all the other moms are whipping up costumes for school plays.  Then it will probably hurt.  A little.

How to be married.  This would have really been a helpful class.  Not the religion aspect or the big stuff.  I am talking about the day to day, little things that married couples have to get used to.  The toilet paper roll orientation.  The division of labor.  Who gets to sleep on what side of the bed.  How long do you wait until you discuss your mate's horrible toe hygiene and offer to pay for a pedicure? I lived alone for a long time before I got married, so I had an even bigger growth curve.  There were days at the beginning where  I wasn't sure what the heck to do, and leaving seemed to be a viable answer. I was used to living alone, when I didn't have to share anything and could watch whatever I wanted on tv in whatever outfit I wanted.  Luckily, love conquered all. 

How to fight.  At school, we weren't allowed to fight.  They would read out the code of conduct to everyone over the PA system, and we would all look at each other as if we had no idea what the teacher was talking about, but we knew.  Which is why we would schedule our fights for later, after school.  My dad had to go and beg for the opportunity to have a little more time. My dad taught me how to throw a punch without breaking my fingers, and that made all the difference to my confidence.  I didn't even have to actually do it--it was the idea that I could. Punch a teenager who wants to fight you in the face, and they do tend to go away without too much bother.  Or if a man in a bar happens to want to manhandle you into a dance, a punch to the right spot will cause him to look elsewhere.

How about you?  Any interesting skills that you know that you didn't learn in school?

Feminine Wiles

 
Mamakat's Marvelous Prompt:  1.) Something you learned in college.


When I arrived at Southwest Texas State University, the only person I knew was my roommate Cathy.  Cathy and I had been "besties" in junior high, and had kept in touch even after my dad got stationed at Walter Reed.  The Cathy that I knew, however, was awkward and socially inept, just like me.  This new and improved Cathy was blonder, perkier.  She had contacts now, instead of the glasses she used to wear.  She had been a cheerleader, fer gosh sakes!  I couldn't even do the splits.  Cathy was confident, happy in her new skin.  I was not.

Since she was the only person that I knew, I stuck to her like white on rice.  I hadn't been in the state of Texas for some time, and it was best to hang with the natives until I got my bearings.  So we hung out, walking to classes together, eating together, etc.  We made a couple of friends and hung out with them, laughing and joking. When it was just us, Cathy was intelligent and witty.  She looked us in the eye.  She told us what she thought. 

When boys were around, however, Cathy became different.

It wasn't flirting.  Flirting would imply some form of equality.  From my perspective, Cathy's behavior seemed to be closer  to sycophancy.

Cathy simpered.  She preened.  She admired flaccid biceps.  She laughed at inane jokes. She did the classic hair flip, the one that sociologists seek grants to study.  She asked questions about topics to which she knew the answer.   I even caught her batting her eye lashes! Whatever the boys said, Cathy seemed to hang on every word.  

This was completely weird to me.  Why was my usually intelligent friend acting so oddly?  Had she been abducted and replaced by pod people?  I was astonished, but intrigued, because her behavior seemed to work.

Guys loved that stuff.  They puffed up their chests, performing as much muscle flexing as they could without being obvious.  Almost all men smiled at Cathy while she performed, and many acted as though they would do anything for her that involved showing off their muscles.  Men bought her beers, asked for her phone number, and actually called her! Was she using those mysterious 'feminine wiles' that I'd read about in my mother's magazines? Is THAT what all the fuss was about?

I was appalled.

I was flabbergasted.

At least, at first.

As I watched Cathy, I suffered a bit of a moral dilemma.  I wanted to have admirers.  I wanted to go on dates.  I wanted a bit of romance. On the one hand, I didn't think that one should have to simper or preen when meeting men.  On the other hand, free stuff--affection, adoration, and food and beer.  Cathy was getting free things, and attention, with little effort.  I was amazed.

I wanted that, too. It would mean acting a bit, pretending to be less intelligent, but I thought that I should at least try.  After all, feminine wiles had been part of the toolbox for women for centuries.  I was just joining the club. 

Thanksgiving Recipe

Mamakat's Marvelous Prompt:     Share a favorite Thanksgiving Recipe.  I got this one from my Aunt Madonna.  (Yes, that is her real name.)  It is one of the few things that I can cook reliably well, but I only make it during the holidays because it probably has 14,000 calories per heavenly spoonful.  This is also a pretty inexpensive side to make, so if you are counting pennies, this might be the dish of choice.




Corn Casserole

Ingredients

1 stick of butter, melted(I prefer Land O'Lakes)
1 large egg, beaten
1 box of Jiffy corn muffin mix
1 can(14-16oz) of creamed corn
1 can(14-16oz) regular corn, drained
8oz. sour cream

Use the stick of butter to grease the casserole dish before you melt it. Trust me.
Mix everything in a bowl.
Pour into greased casserole dish.
Bake uncovered at 350 degrees for 1 hour.


There are variations of this recipe, from adding cheese to throwing jalapenos in there. It's all good, but some additions may make the cooking time longer. I don't think that you absolutely have to use Jiffy as your corn muffin mix, but that is the only one they sell around here.  I don't recommend using margarine, because it just doesn't taste as good.  Use the regular sour cream, too.  What the heck are you doing trying to lose weight on Thanksgiving, anyway? Start on Black Friday, when you'll be depressed about money anyway.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.  Enjoy yourselves! 

Comfort

Mamakat's awesome prompt:   3.) List 5 things that bring you comfort.


It's been a hard month, at least as far as work goes.  We started out two people short, and in the usual wisdom of management, someone decided that two of the other people in our office didn't need to have contracts.  Both of those people found better paying jobs where they will be shown much more appreciation.  They were my practicum students, and then my interns.  For those who've never mentored a person in your chosen field, it's a rewarding experience, but then you have to say goodbye when the 'young padawans' fly the coop.  I don't do well with that sort of thing--I get all teary and blubbery.  It's downright embarrassing, but it's not like I can help it.  I am sad and happy at the same time, while completely freaking out about who is going to do all the work of the people who left. 

I really need my comforts right now!

1.  My prayer shawl.  When I was pregnant and in a doctor's office at least once a week, I started a prayer shawl.  It's purple, my favorite color, and every single stitch in it is a prayer.  I would sit in the doctor's waiting room and pray while I crocheted my little heart out.  I finished it in the hospital after my son was born, and I've been wearing it around the house ever since. It's a very simplistic design, just row upon row of double crochet, but I love it. It is soft after so many washings, but it is warm and reminds me of my boy.

2. A purring cat.  If the sound of a cat purring doesn't relax you, that is a darn shame.  If I sit still for longer than five minutes, there is a cat near me, and they are purring.  Pounce likes to perch on the arm of my chair, next to my ear, and she will purr constantly.  Zena likes to sit either on my lap or next to me, and she will purr as she is getting herself comfortable, and the purring just melts the tension away.  Purring seems very similar to the chanting that Buddhist monks do, or maybe the same frequency.  It certainly puts me in a meditative state!

3.  My favorite chair.  I have a nice big comfortable chair.  It has a fluffy cushion on it, one that has been warped a bit by Zane's tendency to sit on top of it instead of against it.  The cushion seems to hug around me, which I love.  I will sit back in my chair, put my feet up on the ottoman, and just let go of whatever was bothering me.  If Zane sits next to me in the comfy chair, then that is even better. He and I have sat in that chair many days, just the two of us, and I think that we are both less stressed because of it.

4.  My jammies.  I don't have nightgowns.  I don't have thosw fluffy, diaphanous, barely there nightie that they show women wearing on the television shows.  No, I have jammies. Plaid flannel pants and a t-shirt that have been washed so many times they are as soft as a whisper.  I feel comfortable in them.  Hell, I feel comfortable just thinking about them!  They don't look pretty, and I'm no underfed Victoria's Secret model.  My jammies get the comfort job done, however,  and that's all that counts in my book.

5.  My family.   In times of stress and strife, I don't head for the hills.  I head for home.  Spending time with my husband and my son, whatever we are doing, comforts me.  My husband fusses at me for staying up too late, and Zane fusses at me because I forgot to put the right kind of cheese crackers in his lunch, but it's all good.  My batteries get recharged, at least enough to face the next hurdle.  Or the next ditch.  Or mountain.  Whatever.  With family backing me up, I can handle it. 

How about you?  What items comfort you?

The Top Breed

Mamakat's Mellifluous Prompt:  2.) If humans were a dog breed, what would your mother be and why?

Source: dogster.com via Tina on Pinterest

Hmmmm...my mom as a German Shepherd...Nope.

Over the years I have spent quite a lot of time thinking of my mother and why she is the way she is.  It may be that every child does this, or I may just have been a weird kid who spent way too much time alone in her room.   My mother was my first role model, after all.  I was supposed to learn lots of important mother-daughter things from her, habits that would help me become an independent person able to manage my own household some day.  At least that is what the books, magazines, and television shows all said.  Nobody told my mother any of what she was supposed to do, of course.

My mom was supposed to teach me how to sew, for example. All the older television shows displayed women sitting on the couch mending socks or pinning up patterns. I learned to sew on a button and other minor mending chores from a library book that had a lot of pictures. While my mother did sew, she wasn't really interested in teaching me. And after I broke three of her sewing machine needles, I was not allowed to use her sewing machine anymore.   My mom was supposed to teach me how to cook, according to all the tv shows.  Except that my mother doesn't like messy things.  She's a neat freak, and I am not.  After one time too many of having to clean the ceiling, my mother banned me from the kitchen.   I also never really learned how to do laundry from my mother.  I was only allowed to put items in the dryer, take them out of the dryer, and fold them.  The washer was always off limits.

We won't even discuss the whole "power tools" incident.

Source: britannica.com via Tina on Pinterest

My mom as a Weimarinara--Weimarnerier--Weimaraner?  Nope. 

I have had to accept that my mother was just not a traditional mom.  She wasn't a hugger, or affectionate in the least, which took some getting used to.  Most of my memories of my mother involve her sitting with her nose in a book.  When she read, my brother and I could have lit the couch on fire before she would notice.  If reading is an escape, she escaped!  She wasn't very social, but she did make sure that we ate regular meals and that our clothes didn't stink.  She kept a fastidiously clean house without ever resorting to plastic seat covers, and she hardly ever freaked out at the sight of blood.

So, aloof, independent, not affectionate, likes to do her own thing...what sort of dog breed would that be? 

Source: scaredycatsvet.com via Tina on Pinterest

Ah.  Now I understand.